


...In The Shade

by sarahenany, Thursday26



Series: Some Plants Grow... [2]
Category: DreamWorks Dragons (Cartoon), How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Kink, M/M, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thursday26/pseuds/Thursday26
Summary: Fishlegs and Snotlout play a bedroom game. They're very experienced at this roleplay thing... after all, they've done it twice. Three times if you count touching each other under the table.





	...In The Shade

Sprawled on the fur-draped bed, reclining on the ‘couch’ as befits a demigod, Fishlegs is buzzing with excitement. A thrill goes through him as he tries to slip into the Thor mindset, powerful, lord and master of all he surveys. It’s hard to pretend nonchalance as the door swings open.

Snotlout pushes open the door to his hut. He closes it behind him, staring hard at the lock mechanism. He doesn’t look up at all. “I was t—told to report here,” he breathes, his heart clawing up into his throat and stuttering. “My village made a gift of me..” he swallows. They’ve agreed that Snotlout is a virgin presented by a small village to appease a demigod. “As a--a sacrifice to Thor.” 

“Did they now?” Fishlegs looks haughtily down at his boyfriend, hunched over the door lock. The words seem to come from somewhere within him, effortlessly.

“Y--yes, they… to-- to entreat you to make the weather fine and the crops grow, they have made an offering.” Snotlout chokes. “I am… their gift to you. To do with what you will.”

The words send a thrill through Fishlegs, almost physically knocking him sideways, out of himself. He blinks, the cool confidence of Thor settling into his core. “And you are not in the habit of kneeling when in the presence of a god?”

The Viking boy blanches and drops to his knees. “I’m sorry!” He bows his head. “Forgive me.”

The ecstasy of power and control dims slightly. Fishlegs would never want Snotlout to be really scared or hurt. He almost, almost breaks character. But he’s an old hand at this now – they both are. After all, they’ve done it twice already, three times if you count that time they touched each other under the table at the clubhouse! – and he can take care of Snotlout’s fear. “Don’t apologize,” he commands.  “Straighten up and come here so I can inspect you.” 

The little whine that comes from Snotlout is encouraging. He, Fishlegs, must be doing something right. The beautiful boy, his beautiful pledge, crosses the room to stand before the couch, head up, eyes down. And Fishlegs realizes that in the heat of the moment, he’s forgotten something. “Boy.” He can see the shiver of delight run through Snotlout at being called that, the way his eyes lose focus and his eyelids almost flutter. “Your helmet.”

It’s gratifying how quickly the Viking boy grabs his helmet and casts it aside. “I’m sorry,” he says again.

Fishlegs doesn’t like the way Snotlout is always apologizing, as though he’s doing something wrong - or as if he himself has been found wanting. It makes something twist in Fishlegs’ chest. He takes a deep breath. He puffs himself up in his seat so that he’s slightly above eye level with Snotlout, even sitting down, and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me…” Inspiration strikes. “Look at me, mortal,” he commands, in a harsh tone that brooks no disobedience.

Snotlout’s eyes rise to his, dark, pupils fully blown in the candlelight. A faint tremor runs through his body, sensitive and fragile under Fishlegs’ hand. He has the power to make this beautiful boy tremble, and it makes him feel every inch the demigod he’s pretending to be. “Y—yes…” Snotlout stammers.

“You may call me ‘My Lord.’” They haven’t gone through details. And only now does it strike Fishlegs that Snotlout doesn’t even know whether the ‘god’ will approve of him. The thought that Snotlout might not think himself good enough makes Fishlegs’ heart ache.

Snotlout can feel himself trembling before Fishlegs, and he can’t control it. Only the thought that he’s a Viking makes him not call the whole thing off, maybe run back to his hut and never see Fish again. What was he thinking? Virgin sacrifice?  _ Him?  _ He’s not good enough.  _ A short Viking is a disgrace _ , his father’s voice echoes in his head. It wasn’t said about him. But he knows it’s the same. And here he is, about to be judged and found wanting and—

Still sitting on the bed, Fishlegs brings both hands up to wrap around his elbows and Snotlout’s breath catches. Fishlegs’ face is his own, but it also has that of the demigod about it. He’s not Fishlegs in this moment, Snotlout can tell. His lord and master slips his hands under his tunic, moving them over the skin of his chest and back, pressing gently, the way a Viking will assess the worth of a yak or a sheep. There’s a mischievous spark under the demigod’s commanding stare, just for a moment. Then it’s buried again. “So beautiful,” the demigod murmurs, smiling. He nods approvingly. Snotlout almost chokes on his own indrawn breath. The god ignores the mortal, as gods are wont to do. “They must really value me to give me such a beautiful, perfect sacrifice.”

_ Sacrifice.  _ Oh, gods. Snotlout shudders and moans.

“Undress,” says the god lazily, leaning back into a semi-reclining position. “Show me my property.”

Snotlout flinches. His mouth opens and closes. He’ll be completely vulnerable. Everything on display. His scars. How short he is. His soft muscles.  Fishlegs has seen him naked before… but not for his  _ approval.  _ His hands fumble up to his tunic, then falter. Maybe his gauntlets first? His belt? He fumbles for his gauntlets and armband, unwrapping the leather and laying it aside. But then he stands helpless, unable to make the next move.

“Are you trying my patience?” The mortal, Fishlegs thinks, now thoroughly in his demigod mindset, is slow to obey him. This merits a warning, maybe a correction. How dare he delay? How dare he keep him waiting?

“I’m sorry,” Snotlout whispers. Fishlegs tilts his head marginally, looking at Snotlout out of the corner of his eye—and his heart aches. Snotlout is wringing his hands, his face unhappy. He’s not shy; he’s  _ ashamed.  _ It’s hard to keep up his Thor persona when all he wants to do is hug Snotlout and reassure him. But Fishlegs takes a deep breath: Thor The Demigod will actually be better at reassuring Snotlout than Fishlegs The Geek. 

He takes a deep breath, then another, centering himself. Without haste, Fishlegs sits up. “No apologies unless I command it,” he instructs.

“Y—yes, sir. I’m s…” Snotlout trails off.

Reaching out slowly, gently, Fishlegs lays the pads of his fingers along the line of Snotlout’s square jaw. “Such a beautiful sacrifice,” he murmurs approvingly. His heart aches with Snotlout’s submission, with his trust. Giving in to his impulse, he pulls his sacrifice close, pressing the boy’s chest to his own, easing his head down to lie soft and pliant against his collarbone. He feels Snotlout shudder and cling to him, so much more vulnerable than he usually allows himself to be. He strokes his smooth, black hair. “Such beautiful hair,” he says... and Snotlout whimpers.

_ Oh.  _ “Such a beautiful face,” Fishlegs goes on, still holding his boy close. He feels Snotlout’s breathing pick up, loving how he shudders with arousal. “Such a beautiful body. So well formed.” He rubs his boy’s back and shoulders, drawing a shudder. Snotlout burrows into his embrace. “I will reward your village for sending me such a perfect sacrifice,” Fishlegs chokes out, overwhelmed with how he’d really feel if this beautiful, perfect, loving person were a gift to him to do as he pleased.

And, in a way, Snotlout is.

Fishlegs holds Snotlout out at arm’s length, breathing hard with him, both of them a little breathless with emotion. Snotlout’s hands tremble, clenched loosely around Fishlegs’ elbows. His face is stained with a red flush over his cheekbones, eyes glazed and dilated, lips parted. “I’m so glad you’re my gift,” says Fishlegs, entirely truthful.

Snotlout moans. And it’s only then that Fishlegs notices the tent in Snotlout’s leggings. A surge of power rushes through him at the knowledge that he can do this, that he has the power to do this. He reaches out to do more.

Still sitting comfortably on his couch, his offering standing before him, the demigod unbuckles his sacrifice’s belt. After all, it’s his right to unwrap his gift. “Stay still, boy,” he commands. The boy makes a high-pitched noise that sends a thrill of power through Thor’s arms. The demigod smiles in amusement, enjoying a moment of delicious imaginings of how he can get his little sacrifice to make that sound again. Not that he isn’t making similar noises himself as he undoes his boy’s belt and unlaces his tunic. “Let’s see my gift.”

_ My gift.  _ The words cut through Snotlout. Snotlout fills with fear and shame and anticipation and longing. His knees almost buckle. He wishes he were so much taller, so much more muscular, more well-built, more handsome… How can he ever earn Thor’s approval?

But there’s something in the demigod’s smile as he pulls off Snotlout’s tunic, easing it over his head and tossing it aside. That smile. Like he could refuse the whole world if it was offered him, in comparison to seeing Snotlout in this state.

Snotlout’s heart stutters. “I uh…”

The demigod’s big hand is on his boy’s cheek, covering the entire side of his face and wrapping around the back of his head, soft blue eyes boring into his. “Don’t speak unless I command it,” he smiles, and his voice is like honey. Then he fists his hand in his sacrifice’s hair, drawing a delicious squeak, pulling his boy in to ravish his mouth, growling with possessiveness. He lets his fingers slide over the boy’s pectorals and brush against his nipples, feeling him shudder and moan into his mouth. Experimentally, he scissors his forefinger and middle finger together to squeeze a nipple, palm still flat against the boy’s smooth chest. His offering.  _ His.  _ The village gave the boy to  _ him  _ to do with what he will. 

He squeezes the little nub harder, brushing his thumb over its tip, then flicking back and forth, feeling it stiffen. He does the same to the other nipple. “Keep still,” he commands. Easily, he flicks both nipples, feeling the stretch as his fingers catch the sides, then brush and release. His boy is moaning, shuddering in arousal and writhing. His knees tremble visibly, but he stays on his feet. Thor grunts to hear his reaction, feeling his own erection strain painfully at his leggings. “You are  _ mine,”  _ he declares, his own voice a bit rough. “Your body is mine. All of you is  _ mine _ . My property, to do with what I will. Do you understand?”

The boy feels a thrill go through him, and he lets himself sigh and moan and shudder with delight. “Yes, M--My Lord,” he breathes.

The demigod grabs the hand of the boy standing before his couch. It’s a tool for him to use, his, as the boy is his. Snotlout moans at the thought. Thor turns his boy’s hand so the palm is pressed against where the demigod’s manhood is pushing against his leggings. He shifts to the edge of his makeshift couch, spreading his legs to allow better access. 

“My Lord,” Snotlout groans again.  And damned if the erection under his hand doesn’t  _ jump  _ at the words. He groans, instinctively cupping his hand to rub and squeeze at the hardening flesh. One large hand fists in the hair at the nape of his neck - Gods, how he loves those hands - pulling at his hair without remorse, without a care, his master’s lips and tongue plundering his mouth as his erection grinds forward into his sacrifice’s hand. He moans at being so used, half-falling forward. 

The boy stands there, being used, for what seems like a long time, nothing but a tool for his lord’s pleasure. As it should be. His pleasure is irrelevant. He fondles his lord’s manhood and submits to his manhandling, his own erection neglected and aching. The big hands tease and pinch his nipples, then grip him firmly and, in a show of power, dig into his sides and lift him completely and easily off the ground. He hangs there, feet suspended in mid-air, his lord and master ravishing his mouth with rough kisses, growling into his mouth and sucking his lips hard enough to make them swell. “Everyone will see your pretty mouth… so swollen… they’ll know how hard I used you…” the demigod mutters. The words make the boy whimper with arousal, his fingers clenching around the stiff erection in his hand through the clothing - he would love to touch it bare, but he dare not do anything except what his lord desires. Lowering him to stand on his own feet once more, Thor makes free with his virgin sacrifice’s body for his own pleasure: he slips his hands under his leggings to squeeze and fondle his nether cheeks, sliding a finger between them, making his knees buckle. Briefly, his big hand covers the throbbing erection, and when he gently squeezes, the boy can’t help a little scream.

When his lord lets go of him, the boy stumbles. Big hands are on his waist, helping him stand. He’s dizzy, blank with desire, the throbbing between his legs driving him half out of his mind. “So, so perfect,” the demigod says, and the boy moans. Why are the words doing this to him, why is he…? Thor cups his boy’s erection and presses it gently. “So beautiful. So manly. So perfect. They gave me the best they had…”

He takes his hand away, but Snotlout’s already coming, soaking his pants. He cries out, vision going blank with ecstasy.

“What...” Fishlegs is startled out of his persona as Snotlout shudders against his encircling hands, his face blushing bright, glowing red. Looking down at Snotlout’s leggings, he sees a wet stain spreading. “— _ Oh.”  _ He tightens his hands around his boyfriend, rubbing Snotlout’s shoulders as he comes, and giggles in sheer joy, unable to keep himself from smiling goofily, not like Thor at all.

It’s not like Snotlout didn’t  _ like  _ it, but  _ dammit  _ he’s embarrassed. He’s come in his pants like when he was fifteen. “Shit!”

But Fishlegs grins. It’s just him again, and the shy pride in his face is somehow more exalted than the godly mask of earlier. “I did something right!”

“You did  _ everything  _ right, Fishface, and if it’s okay with you, I’d just as soon not stop now.” Snotlout’s caring geek is back, and although he fucking adores his boyfriend, Snotlout isn’t done yet, and he could scream at the softness in his friend’s eyes and the loss of the controlling demigod. 

“Are you sure?” Fishlegs moves aside on the couch, clearing a larger space for Snotlout to sit down. “If you need a break…”

“I will break my own arm if you cut this short, Fishface, so help me, by all the Aesir…!”

“Hmm.” Finding himself amused by Snotlout’s breathless, indignant eagerness, Fishlegs lets it feed his power. Experimentally, he reaches out and grips Snotlout by the back of his neck, forcing him to look into his face. With the forefinger of his other hand, he traces Snotlout’s kiss-swollen lips. “Feisty.” The commanding tone is back in his voice. “I just got done marking him, and he still talks back.” Snotlout shivers, cock stirring although he’s only just come. “Needs breaking in.” 

At the words ‘breaking in’, Snotlout whimpers loudly. Thor squeezes the flesh around the boy’s mouth and pulls him in for a hard kiss, still keeping his cheeks squeezed in one hand, so his lips are pushed forward. He flicks his tongue across them and nibbles on them and dips his tongue between them, every so often giving his boy’s hair a tug and enjoying the little squeals that that draws.

The demigod releases his boy, leaning back languidly. “Strip. Everything.”

This time, Snotlout hastens to obey. It’s a relief to get the sticky pants off. But he’s taken aback by the next command, issued when he’s barely got out of his leggings and boots: “Wash them.”

“What?” Snotlout turns. “I thought this was sexytime, not chore-time!”

“You’re the one who wanted to go on,” says Fishlegs. “You can stop anytime. But if you don’t want to, what I say goes.”

“You have got to be kidding me!”

Suddenly, the demigod rises, stalking across to close the few paces between them. He looms over Snotlout. “Are you challenging  _ my _ authority?”

Snotlout feels himself cringe, throat dry. Suddenly, he finds he’s shaking. “N—Uh, I…”

As if he weighs nothing, Thor bends and catches Snotlout by the waist. He flings him over his shoulder, carrying him across the room. Snotlout swings, seeing the walls and ceiling upside-down. He’s limp, unable to think or move. Thor crosses the room in three quick strides, but he doesn’t put him down. Being kept hanging over the broad, warm shoulder should be scary, but the warmth is comforting. It’s almost relaxing to be carried, like everything is going to be taken care of now. Like he can let go.

“You disobeyed,” Thor says thoughtfully, as though thinking of a punishment for a crime. His hand wanders up to where his boy’s ass is bent over his shoulder, hanging there so vulnerable. “You disobeyed my direct order.”

“I… Fishface?”

And, in an instant, he’s on his own feet again. It’s so sudden that Snotlout stumbles. But his geeky boyfriend is right there, no trace of the demigod remaining: big hands steadying him, big earnest blue eyes focused on him, worry and compassion in his voice. “Yes?”

Snotlout blinks. “What?”

“What, what?”

Fishlegs starts to blush. They stare dumbly at each other for a moment. 

“Uh…” Snotlout breaks the silence. “Uh…” Fishlegs looks away and clears his throat, looking like he wants to run. But Snotlout’s a Viking. He can do this. Even though talking about it is the most embarrassing thing in the world bar  _ absolutely nothing.  _ “We, uh…” He swallows. “What—Why’d you stop?”

“You said ‘Fishface.’”

Snotlout shakes his head to clear it. “Uh… Yeah, but that doesn’t—Why’d you stop?”

“Because _ you said my name!” _

“What’s that got to do with it?”

And Fishlegs gets That Look. That Look is what Snotlout calls the look Fishlegs only gets when he’s protecting someone smaller or weaker than him. When he’s defending a drakaina’s eggs from being stolen. When he’s keeping Quakens from being used as slaves. When he’s destroying an arena where wild animals are made to fight one another for sport. That Look makes Thor Bonecrusher’s empty posturing fade into insignificance. That Look was what Snotlout first fell in love with, long before he knew what love even was.

And it’s directed at him. Snotlout feels so adoring he could burst.

“Snotlout, when you call me by my name, I will stop. Always. Doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing. I can – no offense, I can overpower you. If I, uh, really try.” Snotlout is pretty sure that ‘if I really try’ was put in there to salvage his, Snotlout’s, pride, and he appreciates it. “And part of the fun is overpowering you. But I never want to do it for real. So if you don’t want me to stop? Don’t call me Fishlegs – or Fishface,” Fishlegs laughs, “because that’s one way to make me always, always stop. If you don’t like what’s going on. Or you want to change it up. Or you have something you wanna ask me. Just say my name, and it stops. Whether you like it or not.”

Snotlout stares. Then he stares some more. Then his mouth quirks up sideways. “Fishface,” he says.

Fishlegs looks back at him, a slight quirk in his mouth as well. “Yes, Snotlout?”

Snotlout wants to kiss him. Or call him an idiot. Or tell him one of a million sappy things he’ll never live down. Well, he might, since this is Fishlegs, but he has an image to uphold. “Where were we?”

And just like that, he’s upside-down over Thor’s shoulder again, his entire front half dangling helplessly from an imposing height. “You disobeyed me,” says the demigod, in a tone that sends chills down Snotlout’s spine. “In fact – you challenged a direct order.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Snotlout says, and this time he feels a little freer, a little more at ease with letting his voice get whiny.

“Disobedience will not be tolerated.” The voice beneath him is strong and confident. “Especially not from my property.  _ Boy.” _ The giant hand caresses the globes of his ass again, fingering his thighs and dipping into the sensitive area between. Snotlout is so helpless that it’s okay to moan in arousal, okay when his hands scrabble at his master’s back, okay when he feels his erection start to push into Fish’s shoulder. Carefully, large fingers cup his balls and pull gently. “It is not wise to displease me.”

Snotlout shudders all over. “I won’t displease you.”

“You won’t displease me,  _ what?” _

“Sir?” The silence lengthens, stretching. Did he not say the right thing? But then he remembers. A shudder goes through him, a rush of warmth as he says it. “My Lord.”

“Good boy.” The big hand pats his ass. He’s swept up again and set down on his feet, the demigod condescending to steady him. “Now do your washing.”

And the god retires, clothed and comfortable, to his seat, watching his property perform a menial task. “I’ll check on the quality of your work when you’re done,” he says, easily. 

It takes a moment to get an extra bucket, to find the bar of soap they use for cleaning clothing, and doing it completely naked, like he doesn’t even deserve to be clothed, is arousing. He can feel his lord and master’s eyes on him. Every time the boy bends over, he can hear a humiliating hum of approval from his lord, and it makes his cock twitch. He’s nothing but property, serving his lord. In the nude.

“Put some more wood on the fire,” the demigod commands and his boy scurries to obey. It’s arousing to believe that his lord and master cares nothing about whether he’s cold, but there’s something secure and settled in Snotlout’s heart in the knowledge that Fishlegs is still looking out for him. Then he pushes it away at the sheer pleasure of kneeling at the washing-bucket and scrubbing, the fine hairs all over his body standing straight up at the knowledge that he’s naked, completely on display. 

He loses himself in the motions of rubbing the soap into the fabric and dipping it into the bucket, in the security of knowing what he’s supposed to be doing. There’s something soothing about it, about giving in… He’s almost done when he hears footsteps behind him. “Stand.”

He lets go of the garment, letting it fall into the bucket, and stands to face his lord, who is directly behind him. The demigod looms, frowning. “Did I tell you to stop working?”

A little thrill of startlement runs through him and he feels his eyes widen. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every sensation in his body, the fine hairs on his chest standing on end, the slight throb in his knees from standing after kneeling for a while. His voice is unsteady as he falters, “I… Uh… I’m sorry, I…”

“I said no apologies unless I demand them,” says his lord. Then he palms his boy’s cheek. “No matter how pretty you are, you must be trained to obey.”

His breath shudders as he gives in. He nuzzles into his lord’s palm, surrendering completely. “Yes, My Lord.”

As though sharing a secret, Fishlegs whispers in Snotlout’s ear, “I love you.” Then he backs up, all trace of Fishlegs gone. The demigod pats his sacrifice’s cheek. “I want to use you while you finish your task. Any objections?” he adds in a tone that suggests that the question is rhetorical. After all,Thor doesn’t care if his property has any objections.

The boy feels a shudder run through his entire body. “No… My Lord.”

“Okay. Back to work. Standing.”

He feels intensely vulnerable as he bends back to the bucket, doing women’s work, scrubbing dirty clothes, bent all the way over, his bottom in the air. He startles as big hands start to touch and caress him, fingers dragging over the sensitive nerves high up in his thighs, cupping his balls, pulling his cheeks open and exposing him, brushing feather-light fingers over the inside of his ass, teasing the tops of his thighs in the places that drive him crazy, then back to the inside of his cheeks, teasing his asshole. He’s so dizzy with the stimulation that it’s hard to concentrate on the washing.  _ The washing _ , he reminds himself _ …  _ such a woman’s task, such a dirty, menial job… He is being used… Used like a thrall, like a woman… He groans, half-blinded with arousal.

“Keep working. Spread your legs,” his master says, and he moans, guttural and ragged, fully erect again. Now he is  more open,  more vulnerable. He holds onto the sides of the tub, trying to get his balance with his legs spread and his privates dangling in the air, fully exposed. The cold air on his prick, the knowledge that he’s getting  _ no  _ stimulation,  _ no  _ release, until such time as his lord sees fit, makes his erection throb, painfully hard. “Why have you stopped working? Do I need to teach you a lesson?”

“No… ohhh…”

A slick finger presses into his hole. He pushes back, wanting, welcoming. But a powerful hand on his waist keeps him in place. “Keep washing. I decide what you do or don’t do.  _ I  _ control you,” Thor growls. “Do you understand, boy?”

He moans, dizzy, undone. “Yes, My Lord.”

He keeps scrubbing the clothes. He has to please his master, to wash them well. He stays bent over, legs spread, most intimate areas on display to be used by the one who owns him. He doesn’t get to say no, he doesn’t get a choice. It doesn’t matter what he wants. “You’re mine, aren’t you, boy? They gave you to me.” A second slick finger presses against him, pushes in. “I  _ own _ you.”

He groans aloud, the slight sting making his cock jump. “Yes, My Lord.” He’s aching for his erection to be touched, but his hands are busy with the washing and his lord’s hands are busy making free with his body - his  _ property _ . He wouldn’t dare ask his lord and master to touch him. He’s here only to be used. Nothing else. His own pleasure or pain is irrelevant. His cock jumps again at the thought.

“Such a perfect, tight little hole.” Thor is lined up now, hard and heavy. He holds his sacrifice’s hips easily in place with one massive hand, the other guiding his erection. “They gave you to me to use. And they couldn’t have given me a more perfect, beautiful boy.” The words make the sacrificial virgin’s head spin, and he cries out to hear them. When he’s back to himself, he’s impaled on Thor’s thick cock, still bent over the washtub like a servant-woman, naked like a whore. Fucked while washing. This is what he gets when he’s sacrificed. Gifted. Offered. Property. “Mine,” the demigod grunts, starting to thrust. “Mine.”

The huge cock using him brushes against something that makes his eyes roll back in his head and his hands brace on the edges of the washing-bucket. “Yours.” Thor adjusts the angle, hits it again and again, and he starts to blank out, high-pitched noises coming out of him with every thrust.

“Oh, fuck, baby—” And of course Fishface has to break the spell, wrapping his hand round Snotlout’s cock and roaring out as he comes. Snotlout forgives him, if only because he’s coming too, with a scream, as Fishlegs babbles, “So good, so good, so fucking beautiful,” and there are stars behind his eyes. Fish’s hands shield him as they fall sideways, or else he’d have knocked himself out on that blasted washing-bucket.

“Buh,” Snotlout says intelligently when they can speak again. They’re lying on their sides on the floor. At some point they’ll have to move, or the fire will die down and they’ll be frostbitten come morning. But for now, it’s all he can do to lie there. He wonders if he can call on Hookfang for an assist. Probably not; the dragon might be scarred for life or something, and would never let him forget it. And some remnants of chivalry forbid him from letting a lady ever see them this way, so Meatlug is out for an assist as well.

“Ubh,” Fishlegs echoes sagely. He tightens his arms around Snotlout. “Luh. You.”

“Yeah, me too. But next time save it for after.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t tell me…” Snotlout blushes. “Don’t tell me you love me while we’re… doing stuff. It’s… It’s kinda hotter when you just act like you don’t care about me, like you’re just using me and you don’t give a shit.”

Fishlegs holds Snotlout tighter, his hands splaying to cover most of his upper body. “As long as you let me say it. As long as you know it.”

“Okay, okay. But if you say it while we’re, you know, I’ll just have to sic Hookfang on ya.”

Fishlegs lets out an adorable giggle. “Okay.”

Fuck. Snotlout  _ loves  _ Fishlegs’ silly little giggle. But he also loves his Thor persona. And he has both. He is the luckiest guy alive. 

Snotlout grins and rubs Fishlegs’ hand. “Next time, don’t make me come. Make me clean it up. You know, after.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Fishface.”

“You mean… uh, make you clean the mess up after  _ I  _ come? I didn’t  _ make  _ you come, Snotlout. Wild horses couldn’t have kept you from it.”

“Hmm.” Snotlout ponders this for a moment. “Guess I must need more training then.”

“Training.” Fishlegs’ voice is contemplative, a little muffled from his face being buried in Snotlout’s hair. “I like the sound of that.”

“Oh, you will, Fishface.” Snotlout pulls Fishlegs’ hands closer into his chest. “You will.”


End file.
